"No. I want it to be just like my house after a sleepover. We always ate in front of the TV. Remember?" She aims the remote control at the television and flips through the channels until she finds MTV. Then she pours cereal into bowls, carefully making sure we have the same amount. I am not in the mood for Froot Loops, but it is clear that I do not have a choice in the matter. Although I find it somewhat touching that she wants to re-create our childhood, I am also annoyed by her bossiness. Running roughshod, Ethan said. Maybe it is a precise description after all. And here I am, a willing participant, letting her steamroll me.

"Tell me when," she says, pouring whole milk onto my cereal. I hate whole milk.

"When," I say, almost instantly.

She stops pouring and looks at me. "Really? They are barely moist."

"I know," I say, appeasing her, "but this is how I liked it in high school too."

"Good point," she says, pouring milk in her own bowl. She fills it to the brim.

I take a few bites as she stirs her cereal with her spoon, waiting for the milk to turn pink.

Dido's "Thank You" video is on. Of course, it makes me think of Dex.

"This song," Darcy says, still stirring. "You know the part when she says she's home at last and soaking and then 'you handed me a towel'?"

"Yeah."

"That line totally reminds me of you."

"Of me?" I look at her. "I think it's supposed to be a romantic song."

She rolls her eyes. "Duh! I know that. Don't worry." She takes a bite and continues to talk with her mouth full. "I'm not dyking out or any-thing. I'm just saying you really are always here for me. You know, when the chips are down."

"That's sweet." I smile, push away the guilt, sip my coffee.

We listen to the rest of the song as Darcy noisily eats her cereal. As she finishes her last few bites, she raises the bowl to her lips, gulping the pastel milk.

"Am I being too loud?" she asks, glancing up at me.

I shake my head. "You're fine."

"Dex calls me the Slurper whenever I eat cereal."

I get a pang as I always do when I glimpse a private part of their relationship-which I like to pretend does not exist. Then I realize with an even sharper pang that Dex doesn't have a nickname for me. Perhaps I am too bland to deserve one. Darcy doesn't have a bland bone in her body. No wonder it is hard to leave her. She is the type of woman who draws you in, holds your attention. Even when she is annoying, she is compelling, captivating.

Jennifer Lopez appears on the screen in all her voluptuousness. We watch wistfully as she gyrates over a rural landscape. "Is her butt that great?" Darcy asks.

"I'm afraid so," I say, although I actually enjoy telling Darcy this. She even views celebrities as competition, whereas no part of me begrudges Jennifer Lopez her fantastic ass.

Darcy makes a clicking sound. "Don't you think it's kind of fat?" she asks.

"No. It's great," I say, knowing that both of Darcy's cheeks equal one of Jennifer's.

"Well, I think it's kind of fat…"

I shrug.

"Dex loves her. He thinks she's totally hot."

New Dexter information. Ding! Ding! Ding!What might this mean in the equation? I am fuller-figured than Darcy, but she is darker. I decide to discard the tidbit as not particularly helpful. I mean, most guys appreciate J-Lo no matter what their type. It's like Brad Pitt for us. You might not like blond men with pretty features, but c'mon, it's Brad. You're not going to kick him out of bed for eating crackers.

"Don't worry, though, I'm sure she's not that pretty in real life," Darcy says, assuming all women are like her and need to be consoled whenever they run across someone prettier.

"Uh-huh," I say.

"I mean, makeup artists can work absolute wonders," she says knowingly, as if she has been in the industry for years. She pulls the blanket down from the back of my sofa and wraps herself in it. "I like it here."

So does Dex.

"You cold?" I ask.

"No. I just want to be all comfy-cozy."

We watch videos until I almost forget about Dcx. As much as you can forget someone you're in love with. Then, out of the blue, during a Janet Jackson video, Darcy asks me a question I never anticipated:

"Should I marry Dexter?"

I freeze. "Why are you asking that?"

"I don't know."

"There must be some reason," I say, trying to appear calm.

"Do you think I should be with someone more laid-back? Like I am?"

"Dex is laid-back."

"No he's not! He's totally type A."

"You think?" I ask. Maybe he is. I guess I just don't see him that way.

"Totally."

I mute the television and look at her as if to say, go on, I am ready to be a really good listener. I think of putting on your "listening cap" in elementary school, fastening the imaginary strap under your chin as the boys always did. I swallow, pause, and then say, "It concerns me that you're asking this question. What's on your mind?"

I can feel my heart thumping as I await her answer.

"I don't know… Sometimes the relationship just seems a bit tired. Boring. Is that a bad sign?" She looks at me plaintively.

This is my chance. I have an opening. I consider what I could say, how easily I could manipulate her. But somehow I can't do it. I am already doing the unspeakable, but at least I will be fair about it. I am conflicted out, as they say at my firm. I can't take her case.

"I really don't know, Darce. Only you and Dexter can know whether you are right for each other. But you should really examine your concerns carefully-marriage is a very serious step. Maybe you should postpone," I say.

"Postpone the wedding?"

"Maybe."

Darcy's bottom lip protrudes and her brow furrows. I am sure that tears are imminent when her eyes dart over to the television. She brightens. "Oh! I love this video! Turn it up! Turn it up!"

I unmute the television and turn up the volume. Darcy bobs up and down, doing a head and torso dance, singing a song I have never heard by some boy band. She knows every word. I watch her, marveling at her sudden transformation. I wait for her to bring up Dex again, but she does not.

I blew my chance to tell her to call the whole thing off, that Dex is all wrong for her. Why didn't I steer her in that direction, water the seed of discontent? I never play my hand right. Then again, I don't think Darcy really wants my advice. Other than to tell her that everything will be all right, that she should marry Dexter. And if I won't say what she wants to hear, she will find a video to cheer her up instead.

"That song's the bomb," Darcy says, tossing aside the blanket. She gets up and shuffles across my apartment. She surveys my bookshelf where I recently put the Altoids tin and dice.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for your high school yearbook. Where is it?"

"Bottom shelf."

She squats and runs her fingers over the spines, stopping at the Husky Howler. "Oh yeah. Here it is." She stands back up and notices the tin, placed foolishly at eye level. "Can I have one?"

"It's empty," I say, but she has already deposited the yearbook onto the foot of my bed. Her long, sculpted arm darts toward the tin. She opens the lid. "Why do you have dice in here?"

"Um, I don't know," I stumble, remembering how Darcy used to tell me that I should never go on a timed quiz show. She used to lord it over me, saying that if she ever got picked to be on The Family Feud (never mind that we aren't in the same family) she'd have to think twice before selecting me to be on her team. And no way would I get to do the bonus round at the end.

"You don't know?" she asks.

"No reason, I guess."

She stares at me as one might look at a babbling schizophrenic on the subway. "You don't know why you put dice in an Altoids tin? Okay. Whatever, weirdo."

She removes the dice from the tin, shaking them as if she is about to roll them.

"Don't," I say loudly. "Put them back."

It is not a good idea to tell her what to do. She is a child. She will want to know why she can't roll them. She will want to roll them just because I told her not to.

Sure enough: "What are they for? I don't get it."

"Nothing. They are just my lucky dice."

"Lucky dice? Since when do you have lucky dice?"

"Since always."

"Well, why do you have them in an Altoids container? You don't like cinnamon Altoids."

"Yes I do."

She shrugs. "Oh."

I study her face. She is not suspicious, but she is still holding my dice. I will run across the apartment, tackle her, and wrestle them from her before I let her reroll them. But she just looks at them one more time and replaces them in the tin. I am not sure if they still have sixes facing up. I will check later. As long as they are not rolled again, I am okay.

She picks up my yearbook and carries it back over to the couch, flipping to the sports and intramural pages in the back. This will keep her busy for hours. She will find a thousand things to comment upon: remember this, remember that? She never tires of our high school yearbook, discussing the past and speculating about what has become of so-and-so who didn't show up at the reunion because either (a) he has now become a total loser or (b) the opposite phenomenon has occurred and he is so spectacularly successful that he doesn't have time to return to Indiana for a weekend (the category Darcy says I am in because, of course, I had to work that weekend and missed it). Or she plays one of her favorite games where she opens the book to a page, closes her eyes, scribbles her index finger over the page until I say stop, and whichever guy is closest to her finger will be the one I must have sex with. Those are classic Darcy games, and when our senior yearbook first came out twelve years ago, they were grand fun.